


Penance (drabble)

by drainoctane



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drainoctane/pseuds/drainoctane
Summary: "Okay so, hear me out here. I like to think that either Sulyvahn or Aldrich have a wax play fetish?? Because holy shit have you seen the amount of candles in the Cathedral, it's absurd." -anon





	Penance (drabble)

“Don’t burn your fingers,” Sulyvahn sighed, barely making an effort to advise Aldrich at this point.

A soft, admonishing hiss leaked from between Aldrich’s teeth. “You’re being punished. For your sin of…” he paused for a moment, deliberately tipping the candle farther while he concocted the pontiff’s alleged crime. Sulyvahn made soft, distracting noises every half-second after the hot wax hit his skin. “Insubordination, of course.” Aldrich twisted the candle slowly between his fingertips so the flame had more to melt.

Sulyvahn kept his head pressed back against the chair he was pinned to, so no stray drops would hit his face as Aldrich beleaguered his neck and shoulders with wax. Aldrich was seated on his lap, using the weight his sacrifices had left behind to his advantage, but the pontiff didn’t want to move if it meant cracking all the shapeless seals Aldrich had left on him.

Aldrich grinned at the way the white drops built up in the hollows of Sulyvahn’s collarbones, at the shapes they traced as they crawled or splattered. He’d used up a vigil’s worth already, binding the pontiff’s hands and wrists to the wooden arms of the chair. “Always warning me, pretending you’d stop me. And you doubt my appetite!” Aldrich pulled the candle close to Sulyvahn’s chest with a devilish twist of his lips, to melt some of the standing wax. “I don’t think I need to tell you how unspeakably presumptuous that is, Pontiff.”

Sulyvahn closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to squirm away from the encroaching flame. Even the rising and falling of his chest with the slow, shallow breaths he took threatened Aldrich’s mad designs. To disturb them would be to distract him; to remind him that he was probably, somehow, hungry; to be faced with the prospect of a lap without his monstrous, magnetic weight in it.

The wax melted and slid over Sulyvahn’s chest, covering him as the ill-attended sconces and chandeliers of the cathedral were covered. It wound over its own tracks like pale vines, like roots.


End file.
